


Call (For Me) And I Shall Answer

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) Can Hear Longing, Castiel Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Castiel Watches Over Dean Winchester, M/M, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: He feels terrible. Exhausted. More than he should be, despite his lack of sleep the previous night and the draining battle against the demon. But he's Dean Winchester, toughest hunter any world has ever known, so he figured he'd pop an Advil for the pain and take a nap, deal with it after he's had a bit of a well deserved rest.It has always been as certain and absolute as the sun rising in the sky each morning — when Dean calls, Castiel must answer.





	Call (For Me) And I Shall Answer

_“I’m fine!”_

_“You don’t look anywhere near fine, Dean!”_

_“Then stop looking!”_

_“Dean…”_

_“Sammy.”_

_“Fine, okay.”_

Dean inhales shakily, exhaling on a heavy sigh as his little brother's footsteps retreat down the hall. He drops his head to the table he's sitting at, pressing his forehead to the cool surface. For minute, Dean just breathes. Focuses on the way his lungs fill with air, the way his rib cage expands. It feels nice.

See, Dean Winchester is not a man who asks, when he really needs something. He demands, he takes. If he's in a good mood, he will warn you that he'll very well do as he likes if you deny him. Very rarely does he utter the word _please,_ and he can count the number of times he'd truly begged on the fingers of one hand. But, a mere five minutes ago, Dean had been more than willing to beg for an hour to himself, in this shabby motel room booked under two ridiculous aliases.

And Sam, bless his overly concerned heart, had relented before Dean could even consider using the word _please._ Dean's humanitarian giant little brother had frowned with his trademarked _I want to help_ expression, earnest and innocent, and Dean just couldn't stand looking at his wounded puppy eyes and ridiculously long brown hair curling at his ears. _Sammy,_ Dean had near sighed in his exhaustion, blinking slowly down at his hands, and something had changed in Sam. _Fine, okay,_ Sam had replied, voice soft and reluctant but understanding. He'd left with a jingle of motel room keys and the quiet _click_ of the front door closing, off to do— Dean didn’t know what. Probably to read the whole damn library. Or whatever Sam did with his free time. Dean didn’t care. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not right now. Hopefully Sam would keep himself safe; no matter what, Dean will keep his phone ringer volume on the loudest it will go, in case Sammy got himself into any trouble.

But right now, Dean is alone, and he needs to make use of the time. Sitting up with a low pained grunt he’d never let escape his throat had Sam been in the room, Dean tips his head back, closes his eyes. Just breathes for a few seconds, short and shallow breaths that don’t require much movement of his chest, then begins silently tallying his injuries. There’s a dull throbbing ache in his left wrist, likely a mild sprain that would pain him for the rest of the week. Dean experimentally shifts a shoulder and immediately regrets it when his whole upper body protests; even without sparing a single glance, Dean knows there are dark bruises blooming under his lightly freckled skin along his shoulder blades and spine, courtesy of being thrown against a brick wall. The once mild headache that had followed him for the whole day made itself known with a vengeance, like something was trying to drill through his brain. One of his legs is cramping up the length of his thigh, the overworked muscles becoming more tight and stiff the longer he sat immobile. Even his throat hurt — although that could possibly be the result of the yelling he had done.

He’d been stupidly careless during their hunt earlier that night and had forgotten to bring the demon killing blade, thinking that they were hunting some other nasty creature — and of course, true to the Winchester luck, they’d been ambushed by an aggressive demon that had been intelligent enough to lay false tracks to trick them. Dean had jumped onto the demon's back in an attempt to slit its throat with his switchblade — a truly desperate action that was all shades of idiot — as it tried to strangle Sam. It had been a dumb move, but it succeeded in diverting the demon’s attention, so Dean had called it a victory. Until he was thrown clear across the room and into a solid brick wall for his troubles, hard enough that he was properly dazed and seeing double for a straight minute afterward. Thankfully, Dean didn't need sight to recite words, so he'd pressed his cheek to the dusty floor he was sprawled on and dutifully called out words of the demon exorcism, the demon writhing angrily in the space between Sam and Dean as the brothers bounced lines between them like a ping pong ball. Sam had been both impressed and astonished by the effort Dean had put into memorizing all the words of the exorcism, but Dean couldn't even brag and gloat like he normally would, because he’d felt like he'd been hit by a truck — maybe being flung against a wall with demonic strength at full force like a sad sack of potatoes was about the same? Ever the voice of reason, Sam had suggested they settle down for the night and recover in a motel room; Dean had driven them to the nearest one and it had all gone smoothly, up until he sat down at the table and was hit with an overwhelming need to be alone. He's more than just simply grateful that Sam had silently gone through the process of warding the room and setting up all the defensive mechanisms (salt, devil's traps, etc.) without protest before leaving.

There's no explanation that Dean could think of. He feels terrible. Exhausted. More than he should be, despite his lack of sleep the previous night and the draining battle against the demon. Dean knows he should feel more… _something_ after successfully ganking that pain in the ass hellspawn without suffering any life threatening wounds — Satisfaction? Delight? Confidence? — but he just feels _tired._ Only it's not the physical sort that came with aching muscles and a desire to not move for a couple of hours. This sensation is different. Sure, he's physically tired. But his exhaustion extends past that, this time. It's something deep in his bones, sinking malevolent claws into his cells and sending them into a frenzy, working them too hard too suddenly. Dean feels like he's simultaneously running too hot _and_ too cold, burning up and freezing solid all at once. But he's Dean Winchester, toughest hunter any world has ever known, so he figured he'd pop an Advil for the pain and take a nap, deal with it after he's had a bit of a well deserved rest.

Easier said than done.

When Dean pushes himself up from the table, his legs abruptly decide they need a break, wobbling rather pathetically before depositing him back onto the chair. Ever since the morning, he'd felt something weighing down his body like a vengeful spirit. The phantom pressure only increased throughout the day, leaving Dean hypersensitive and irritable with a lingering feeling of unease _and_ slower than usual reaction time, which had led to his near fatal mistake and extremely risky — downright suicidal — attempt to skewer a _demon_ with a toothpick of a knife. He gives himself a minute, scowling down at his weak newborn foal legs, and tries again.

With sheer stubborn Winchester force of will, Dean shuffles to the small connected bathroom, swaying like a drunkard. He leans heavily on the motel wall for support, drags himself to stand in front of the sink, and runs the terrible motel provided toothpaste covered bristles of the toothbrush in halting circles against his teeth. Once his teeth are thoroughly cleaned and he's swallowed a pain relieving capsule of ibuprofen with half a mug of tap water, Dean is blinking heavily, weakly fending off the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.

Slapping at light switches until the room is thrown into darkness — good blackout curtains are such a blessing — so absolute that he couldn’t see a single thing even if he tried his hardest, Dean stumbles in the direction he knew the beds were in. The toes of his boots bump against the sturdy frame of the bed closest to the door after a few dragging steps, thankfully sparing Dean from any more blind bumbling. He doesn't hesitate for any single increment of a second, falling onto his side on the cool sheets with just about as much grace as a vampire missing its head. Dean doesn't even have the time to wince when his bruises — spread all over his back like morbid constellations under his skin — are jarred by the movement; he's unconscious before he lands.

\---

Castiel exhales steadily, watching with vague fascination as his breath condenses into a white fog in front of his face. As a celestial being that didn't require sleep, Castiel finds himself with hours of solitary silence, when humans retreated into the confines of their homes and slept the night away. Since he had no desire to return to heaven and heaven likely did not want his presence, Castiel had started searching for ways to pass the time.

Some nights he hunted, single lone wolf creatures he could kill with his angel blade. Vampires, ghouls, even the occasional low level demon. Only a small handful at a time, just to keep his combat skills sharp, not enough to raise any suspicions. After all, Castiel is a soldier, and he can't afford to become a liability on any battlefield.

Some nights he read, standing between the organized shelves of an empty library. The oldest lore books he could find. Travel books with bright glossy photos of places around the human world. Textbooks that explained the different parts of the human body, how to change a car tire, plants that were edible or poisonous. With not a single person present to bother him or judge his choice of literature, Castiel eagerly reads books written in every language known to man, about any topic at all, happily absorbing every tidbit of information he encounters. He steadily satisfies his curiosity about the human world through ink printed on thin pages, until the sun rises and his time is up.

Some nights he visits an animal shelter, absolutely smitten by the tiny animals. He's always devastated by the amount of time they spent trapped in cages, destroyed by the realization that he couldn't do a single thing about it. Castiel finds a small amount of satisfaction by releasing a single animal at a time over the hours he has with them, carefully watching over it — whether it be a puppy, kitten, mouse, rabbit — as it explores the halls with childlike enthusiasm. After a few minutes, he will softly apologize as he returns it to its prison, the animal in question regarding him with wide eyes that were at once grateful and sad and understanding. The guinea pigs are his favourite; Castiel delights in the way the small furry creatures wiggle and attempt to crawl over his fingers with adorable determination on tiny legs when he puts his hands in the enclosure.

Some nights — like this one — he simply stands, in a park or anywhere he desired, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his trench coat. He used to stare up at the sky, blinking at the stars that winked back from the darkness. No longer does Castiel feel the urge to look up at the heavens. Instead, he turns his gaze down toward the ground, considering the details in tree bark, the stillness of dark water, the things mixed in with the dirt. At times, Castiel would stretch his wings, pushing them outward until they trembled with the effort; he's never worried about someone seeing, for he doesn't bring his wings into the physical plane of reality, leaves them as mere outlined shadows that are next to impossible to spot amongst the darkness of the night.

He doesn't feel the chill in the wind that lifts the back of his trench coat and spreads dark hair across his forehead. Castiel blinks, gently shaking his head to remove the strands of hair over his eyes, and tries to ignore the feeling that's tugging at his gut. But it's unrelenting, only increasing in strength. A powerful force, one to be reckoned with, much like its owner: Dean's longing. It pulls at Castiel like the moon does with the ocean’s tides, tells him he _needs_ to be at Dean's side because Dean's calling for him. And it has always been as certain and absolute as the sun rising in the sky each morning — when Dean calls, Castiel must answer.

But Castiel has learned, after a few mistakes and angry words from Dean, that he should not always appear before Dean when he feels the hunter call, only when Dean has specifically prayed to Castiel in words. He learns that Dean longs for him rather unpredictably, little flares of emotion that fade quickly, unless Dean is drunk. With alcohol inhibiting his normally tight rein over his emotions, Dean _pines_ in Castiel's absence, his longing sharp and uncontrolled. It's the worst when Dean's asleep, because any form of control is gone when his subconscious takes over — _the human id,_ Castiel remembers reading, a theory created by an interesting man named Sigmund Freud, _pure untamed wild instinct, comparable to a devil on your shoulder that existed to pursue pleasure —_ and when his dreams involve Castiel in any way…

And Castiel has learned to notice the subtle differences in the ways Dean unconsciously calls for him. Loneliness; something that is easily amended by a few words from Sam or a couple of drinks. Concern; when Dean is worried about Castiel, usually brought on by Sam being wounded in any way. Wonder; when Dean looks out at the horizon through the Impala’s windshield and ponders the possibility of Castiel being anywhere nearby. Irritation; when Dean has a tedious wound that would require time to gradually heal, his desire to ask Castiel to heal him shadowed by self hatred and guilt. Inebriated; full of recklessness and wholly unguarded.

Tonight, there is a weight in Dean’s wordless call for Castiel. A gentle weight that left sharp edges soft and rounded, something that Castiel has come to realize only occurred when Dean is asleep. But there’s something else. Something thick and dense, dark and sticky like tar. Dean must have fallen asleep after having a few drinks, then. Castiel silently works to ignore his own resulting urge to spread his wings and fly himself across the distance that separated him from Dean. The hunter wouldn’t appreciate Castiel watching him sleep, and Castiel would have no explanation for visiting. It didn’t feel right, keeping something from Dean, but he has long since resolved to never let Dean know — it would cause unnecessary strife for them both. With human selfishness, Castiel guards the knowledge like a dragon hoarding precious gems. Having evidence that you’re wanted and needed is a formidable thing; Castiel finds it simultaneously overwhelming and comforting. _You have no faith,_ he’d once told Dean. And yet, Dean had been right. Strange, how a mere human seemed to understand more than an angel did. But Dean is never simply a mere anything.

Under the ethereal silver light of the moon, Castiel allows himself a smile, small and secret. The wind sends his hair across his eyes once again before abruptly changing directions in a crosswind to buffet his back, lifting his tie. This time, Castiel lifts a hand and — as he’s seen Dean do many times — runs it through his hair. He sinks his fingers into thick dark strands at the roots, pushing backward and flexing his wrist to slide his fingers up and out of his hair. It’s harder for him, because Castiel’s hair is much longer than Dean’s, so he ends up having to do it a second time to smooth down the strands he’d left standing up.

Slowly, he realizes. Castiel’s smile fades, shoulders straightening with his alarm. The longer he thinks about it, the more he comprehends the reason that he’d been so affected by this particular night. Dean’s silent call had been tainted by something that he now knows is alarmingly far from alcohol, and Castiel’s disgusted with himself for not noticing it right away, that it’d taken him this long to even consider the idea.

For some reason, he starts walking, legs carrying him forward with firm purpose. _Dean._ Between one step and the next, Castiel’s surroundings change.

The unobstructed wind that had been swirling around Castiel like an affectionate storm is replaced by calm machine filtered air, locked within four constraining walls. Immediately, he craves to be back outside. Every time Castiel’s inside anything with a door that humans have created, he feels trapped. Caged, like the domesticated creatures humans call pets. It left him with — what was it that humans said? _An itch that demanded to be scratched_ — a sense of unease. Before his discomfort could make a full appearance, Castiel shoves it aside.

Dean is sprawled clumsily across the motel bed, fully dressed minus his jacket. It isn't too concerning, considering how Dean is frequently splayed out in what looked to be extremely uncomfortable positions, exhausted enough after hunts to pass out on practically any surface. What leaves Castiel narrowing his eyes is the telltale sheen — that he can see, even in the dark — of sweat on Dean’s face, the way Dean’s shivering on top of the sheets. Castiel still has some faint echoes of Jimmy Novak’s memories: remembers that shivering is the human body’s response to temperatures that are too low, that perspiration is for high temperatures. Which means Dean’s current combination of reactions is an indication of something _wrong._

Rather timidly, Castiel tips his chin up, takes a short half breath. Worn leather and strong alcohol, so thick he could practically taste the scents on his tongue. Cheap motel soap, cold metal, faint stench of gunpowder. A hint of salt… and sickness. Castiel leans over Dean with a frown, inhales a little deeper. _Flu._ He gently presses two fingers against Dean’s sweaty forehead, pushes his grace through every nook and cranny that he himself had rebuilt, and eliminates the unwelcome intruder with extreme prejudice. His grace instinctively repairs Dean’s injuries along the way; Castiel sees it flash briefly in the shallow cut at Dean’s hairline, glowing bright as the wound disappears.

Relaxing on the bed, Dean’s lips part with a soft relieved sigh. He shifts with a little shudder, inhales sharply like he's about to wake up.

Largely reflexive, Castiel's hand flies out to grip Dean's shoulder, nudging the hunter into a deep sleep.

When Castiel opens the door for Sam after turning on the small lamp farthest from Dean, the younger Winchester gapes for a few seconds, key still held aloft between the fingers of one hand as the other balances a thick stack of books. A thin white plastic grocery bag dangles from his arm, and Castiel absentmindedly hopes that Sam had remembered to obtain some pie for Dean.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Uh. Hey Cas,” Sam replies, voice lilting upward in a question.

Pulling the door further open, Castiel carefully collects the books to set them aside and steps back to allow Sam into the room.

Dropping the bag onto the table, Sam blinks in Dean’s direction as Castiel locks the door and reconnects the salt line. He looks amused. Dean snuffles quietly in his sleep and lazily nuzzles at the collar of the trench coat draped over him like a blanket. Sam raises an eyebrow at Castiel but doesn't comment, just silently drags himself through the motions of getting ready for bed. With a tired nod in Castiel's direction, Sam crawls onto the other bed and falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillow.

Perching on the very edge of Dean's bed, Castiel settles down to keep watch over the Winchester brothers for the night, alert and tireless.

\---

“Dean. Dean! Wake up.”

Squinting blearily up at his smirking little brother, Dean scowls. _What’s he smiling for?_

“C’mon, get up. Got a case.” Sam waves a folded newspaper in the air, crossing the room to sit at the table. He taps at the keyboard of his laptop, riffles through scattered papers.

Dean groans. Even the _idea_ of moving pained him. At least he’d slept through the night with no problems, and his blinding headache... Is nonexistent.

_Huh._

He did sleep extremely well, so perhaps his headache had taken the hint and made itself scarce. Dragging himself up into a seated position, Dean braces for all the aches and pains of his battered body to wake up and collectively clamor for his attention.

It never happens.

The deep ache in his left wrist, the mess of bruises all over his back, the stiffness of his leg, the strange tick in one of his knees that left it a touch weaker than before (he doesn't know what had happened, just knew that he'd always favour the other leg whenever he kicked down a door, for as long as he could remember), even the general soreness after a brutal hunt and sleeping for hours in an awkward position, they're all _gone._

Unless Advil had the hidden miracle power of super healing, something happened while Dean was counting sheep. His own leather jacket slides off one of his shoulders, pooling at his waist. Dean frowns, distinctly recalling how he’d left his jacket draped over the chair where Sam was currently sitting.

He remembers Sam leaving. Brushing his teeth, splashing water on his face. Forcing a pill down his throat with cold tap water. Falling onto the bed.

That’s it, he’d passed out after—

_The sharp sting of ozone, crisp scent of fresh rain. Lightning, crackling with endless untamable power, chased by the acrid heat of the air burning._

“Was there—” Dean’s blurting before he’d even acknowledged the absurdity of the question.

 _No, Dean, there was no_ thunderstorm _in the middle of winter, no matter how warm of a winter it is!_

“...What?”

The answer hits him like a speeding semi truck.

Dean had not prayed, so as soon as it had surfaced in his mind (oh, how _quickly_ Dean had thought of him), he’d ruled out the possibility. But there is no other explanation. How the angel knew he was injured — hell, where he even was — is beyond Dean, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“Was there _what,_ Dean?”

“Nothing, nevermind.”

Sam eyes him with suspicion and a hint of concern, but lets the topic drop.

Later, when Dean’s in the bathroom to brush his teeth, he murmurs a quiet _Thanks, Cas._ He knows the angel is listening.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave it to Dean Winchester to try and combat the flu with one (1) Advil and some sleep


End file.
